by Robert Ellis
It looked like Klinger and Chief Logan were trying to keep in touch. Close touch. Although she had skipped the meeting after the autopsy and hadn’t called either one, Barrera had said that he talked to them this afternoon and everything was cool.
She backed down the hill, trying to control her anger and see the situation for what it really was.
If they wanted to keep an eye on her, which was insane, why would they park in the only spot that didn’t offer a view of her house? Why would they park behind the bluff? The man she saw smoking the cigarette looked young and stupid. All the same, he probably wasn’t that stupid.
As she considered the possibilities, the answer seemed obvious.
She looked up and followed the telephone line through the air. The wire crossed the front yard, then made a run along the side of the house she’d just passed from the pool. She moved down the path to the utility box and swung open the plastic door. As dark as it was, she didn’t need a flashlight to spot the tap and wireless transmitter.
They didn’t need to keep watch because they were listening. Listening without a judge signing off on a warrant.
Lena closed the box without disturbing the tap. Grabbing her wineglass, she returned to the house and locked the door behind her. She was glad she’d skipped dinner, but thought she might have trouble getting to sleep tonight.
14
Nathan G. Cava watched the Mercedes pull into the drive and vanish behind the grove of oak trees. But it was the Ford Explorer with darkened glass following the Mercedes onto the property that he found so disturbing. As the gate closed, he pulled into a construction site just across the street. Someone wanted a new mansion, so they tore down the old one. Nothing was left but a ten-foot wall protecting a bunch of dirt.
Welcome to the Westside. Swimming pools and movie stars.
Cava made a loop, his Hummer grinding up the loose soil. When he had a reasonable view of Fontaine’s place, he slammed on the brakes and watched the cloud of dust rake across the hood. Then he reached for his binoculars, steadying his view through the trees with his elbows pinned to the steering wheel.
Fontaine and his girlfriend from the office were heading for the front door. The two men riding in the Explorer were walking around both sides of the house, sweeping the property.
It looked like the Beverly Hills doctor had hired a pair of bodyguards. All of a sudden things were getting dramatic. And Nathan G. Cava didn’t like dramatic.
He wondered what had spooked Fontaine, and figured that it must have been that story they ran on the news last night. Cava had seen it on one of the stations when it was rebroadcast at 1:00 a.m. He’d just returned to his apartment, popped an Ambien CR, and was lying in bed waiting for the drug to take. That’s when he learned that there had been a witness. That part one of his three-part Hollywood deal wasn’t exactly done yet. There was another loose end. Another screwup, just like all the other screwups he’d endured while overseas.
Someone had been hiding in the parking lot Wednesday night and had the balls to take that picture. The quality of the photograph ate shit and wasn’t worth worrying about. But someone had been lurking in the shadows. Someone had been watching him. No matter how dark it may have been that night, odds were that the witness saw his face and probably knew the make and model of his car. As he played back the night in his head, he had to admit that he’d been a little nervous, a bit rusty and not exactly up to par. He hadn’t expected her to be so young or pretty. And he hadn’t expected her to smile. He had seen her do it through the window when he walked by. He could see the spark in her eyes.
Even worse, he wasn’t really sold on the reason he had been given to talk to the pretty girl and to take her life. It felt a lot like the reasons he had been given during his three tours of duty. When he did the math, it never really added up. Especially the two additional years he had spent in Eastern Europe, where he had been given the nickname Dr. Neat. The truth was that he considered himself a physician—not an information specialist who interviews people and delves into their past with the aid of special tools. Although he had followed orders, he hated the nickname and the people who gave it to him. It felt more like a burden than anything else. A burden placed on him by people he couldn’t trust because he knew that they didn’t have souls and were using him.
Cava needed reasons to do the things he did. The more personal, the better. And if he couldn’t be given a reason, he needed to find one on his own. Something with more resonance than money. Something more real and less tarnished than For God and Country. Sometimes, he found the reason the moment he looked at a person. But usually it took a couple of days to smoke out and feel true. It was part of the creative process. The thing that kept him sane in a world that had stopped spinning eight years ago. The thing that protected his core deep inside. The core no one could get to, that no one could catch or reach or run a jetliner through.
His mind surfaced and he lowered the binoculars. A double-decker bus filled with smiling tourists pulled to a stop in front of the Playboy Mansion at the end of the block. After everyone got their pictures, the bus would stop before the house they’d used to shoot the movie Scarface. Five mansions up the yellow brick road and they would make a third stop in front of Humphrey Bogart’s old house. The place where Sam Spade hung his hat and played with Lauren Bacall’s tits in bed.
Cava knew the route because he’d taken the tour yesterday, shooting pictures like a dumb ass from the upper deck as he tried to get a better feel for the neighborhood. It had been worth the hassle—a reconnaissance mission wearing light touristy clothes purchased directly from Tommy Bahama’s store at the Grove on Third Street earlier that morning. Despite freezing his ass off, he seemed to fit in and managed to get a good first look at Fontaine’s house. The property may have been the smallest on South Mapleton Drive, but still included a pool, tennis courts, a guest house, and a garage big enough to get lost in. But unlike his neighbors, Fontaine only had two cars. This surprised Cava—not ten cars, just a pair of Mercedes. And the convertible looked a little old, like maybe the Beverly Hills doctor was living beyond his means, trying to hold on in a neighborhood where everyone else had enough cash to let go. Still, the house was perfectly placed, the backyard opening like a gate to the Los Angeles Country Club. It seemed to meet Cava’s every need. Getting to Fontaine would be easy when the time came, especially at night.
The tour bus lumbered by, spewing a thick blue cloud of diesel exhaust into air that already smelled like a truck stop. Cava recognized the driver from yesterday and lowered his head, thinking about the growing list of potential witnesses and those two bodyguards.
He had followed Fontaine and his girlfriend home from the office last night. Kept an eye on them until midnight before driving across town to his apartment on Barham Boulevard overlooking Universal Studios and the Warner Brothers lot. When he returned this morning, he noticed the Ford Explorer leading the way to a 7:00 a.m. breakfast at Nate’n Al’s in Beverly Hills. Although he didn’t enter the deli, he glanced through the window in passing and saw Fontaine and the blonde seated with the two men. Probably working out terms and doing the deal.
Cava checked on the tour bus again, watching it wheeze slowly up the hill. Raising the binoculars, he took a last look at Fontaine’s house and wondered if the bodyguards were smart enough to ask for their money up front.
Probably not.
He grinned a little as he kicked the idea around and watched someone lowering the blinds on the first floor. It was beginning to feel right. Beginning to feel true. But first he needed to get rid of his car. He checked his watch. He wanted to hit the dealership before nine.
15
She was standing by the window in the second-floor bedroom and could see the left front fender of the Caprice over the crest of the hill. At some point during the night Klinger’s friends from Internal Affairs had moved their car farther down the road. They may have been anticipating daylight, but they were still there. And when Lena checked the
utility box this morning, the tap and wireless transmitter were still in place as well. They were listening, or at least trying to. After returning to the house, Lena had programmed the phone to forward incoming calls to her cell. The tap on the outside lines would no longer be able to pick up a signal, just the initial ring before the phone company’s computers rerouted the call. It would be a series of long, cold nights for both detectives from Internal Affairs, nights spent in futility and silence. She wished she could see Klinger’s face when they called in their report.
Her cell phone vibrated and she glanced at the LCD screen. It was Steve Avadar from Wells Fargo Bank, calling at 8:30 a.m.
“Lena, when was the woman calling herself Jennifer McBride murdered?”
His voice was quiet. Maybe too quiet.
“Wednesday night,” she said. “Why?”
“Because the account’s still active. Her ATM card has been used every day since the murder to get cash.”
“How much has been taken?”
She could hear papers rustling in the background—Avadar cupping the phone and saying something to someone in his office. After a moment, he was back.
“Whoever’s using the card is pulling her daily limit. Five hundred a day. Two thousand so far. Someone used the card at seven-twenty-three this morning.”
Lena turned away from the window, thinking about the witness. She had received the victim’s driver’s license and the video clip of the abduction, but the witness had kept the victim’s purse and everything inside it, including the ATM card.
“How much is in the account?” she asked.
“More than fifty thousand dollars.”
It hung there. The weight and breadth of the money. Along with the reason why the witness wanted to remain hidden.
“That’s serious money,” she said.
“You bet it’s serious.”
“Where was the withdrawal made this morning?”
“On Fourth Street in Santa Monica.”
“I know it’s Saturday,” she said, “but is there any chance we could meet there instead of downtown?”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. The ATM’s been shut down and we’re pulling the video.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Five minutes later she was easing her car out of the drive and checking the road to her right. The Caprice remained hidden around the bend. As she made a left and hit the accelerator, she rolled down the windows and kept her eyes pinned to the rearview mirror. She could feel the cold air beating against her face, the heat in her blood, but the road behind remained empty.
The bank was at Fourth and Arizona, one block north of Santa Monica Boulevard. Lena entered the lobby and found Steve Avadar in the manager’s office combing through a stack of papers.
She tapped the door on her way in. Avadar was alone and grinned as he rose from the chair.
“We’re still working on the ATM video,” he said. “We’re pulling the first three withdrawals. They’re from local branches, so it should only take another ten minutes.”
“Thanks for doing this, Steve. Let’s start with the victim’s account.”
“I’ve been going through her monthly statements,” he said. “I think we’ve got something.”
“Show me.”
Steve Avadar may have been a vice president directing fraud investigations and risk management for the bank, but today he looked anything but corporate. His dark brown hair was longer than she remembered. And he’d left his suit behind for a pair of jeans and a fleece pullover. Although his appearance was young and athletic, casual and laid-back, she remembered his mind being tack sharp. And when he quickly arranged the statements in chronological order, she could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t driven by worry. It was all about discovery now—a certain fascination for what they might find underneath the next rock.
“Okay, Lena, it’s our lucky day. We’ve got thirteen statements. The woman calling herself Jennifer McBride opened a checking account thirteen months ago with ten thousand dollars in cash. For the first month there was no activity. The money just sat there. When we get to month two, her address changes and money’s moving in and out.”
Lena checked the address printed on the first two statements. Although the town and zip code bordered Santa Monica and Venice, the block number at Lincoln and Ocean Park wasn’t residential. It was a major intersection in a part of town she had driven through many times. When she remembered that a Mail Boxes Etc was located on the same block, it made perfect sense. Jane Doe was in the process of stealing an identity and becoming Jennifer McBride. She needed a mailing address to get started—a safe address where she could receive mail until she rented the apartment within walking distance over on Navy Street.
Avadar pointed at the statements. “I’ve gone through the checks she wrote and nothing stands out,” he said. “Rent and utilities, cable TV, telephone bills for the house and a cell—it’s all routine stuff. Same with her credit card. Just gas, groceries, and restaurants. Did you guys recover her checkbook?”
Lena shook her head and gave him an overview of what they thought had been in the victim’s purse at the time of her murder.
Avadar thought it over. “So maybe she kept an address book or memo pad with her. Maybe she wrote down her password.”
“I think she wrote down a lot of things. She was living two lives and juggling the details for an entire year. She couldn’t trust it to memory. She was too smart.”
“But not smart enough to not get killed.”
A moment passed as Avadar’s words settled into the room. Then he cleared his throat and continued in a quieter voice.
“Whoever’s using the ATM card knew the password from the very beginning, Lena. On the first withdrawal, there were no mistakes. No second or third tries. They inserted the card, punched in the magic number, and, took the cash.”
“Let’s get to the deposits,” Lena said.
“Do you know what she did for a living?”
Lena hesitated a moment, deciding not to answer the question unless it became necessary. “Why?” she asked.
“I’m just curious. She’s not depositing a payroll check. Look at the third statement. Six deposits. Four or five hundred bucks each. All of it’s cash.”
“How does this add up to fifty thousand dollars?”
“It doesn’t. Every statement here is exactly the same. Small cash deposits amounting to about twenty-five hundred dollars a month. Just enough to pay her bills. The fifty grand came in last Friday, six days before she was murdered. The deposit won’t appear on her statement until next month. It came in as a single chunk.”
“Cash?”
Avadar shook his head. “We would have noticed that,” he said. “It was a check from Western Union. I’m gonna make a wild guess that whoever sent it didn’t want to leave a paper trail.”
“And that the fifty thousand started out as cash.”
“All they needed to do was show an ID and fill out a form, Lena.”
“Then Western Union cuts a check at this end and the victim deposits it into her account.”
“Right,” he said. “Let me see how they’re making out with the video.”
Lena watched him exit the room and sat down in the chair. This was what she had hoped to find, what she thought she would find, but had held back from Rhodes last night on the phone because she wasn’t sure. This was the only thing that made sense and explained why a Beverly Hills doctor like Joseph Fontaine could be involved. Why he knew the victim and lied about it to detectives investigating a murder case.
She turned back to the bank statements, reviewing the small cash deposits made at the end of each week.
The best Lena could figure, Jane Doe would have had three good reasons to steal McBride’s identity. First, she grew up in Los Angeles and wanted to hide the fact that she was placing sex ads in a city paper and had become a prostitute. Second, she really could have been a phantom—someone who lights up
a stolen identity and moves on after the candle has burned out. The fact that everything in her apartment was downsized and portable seemed to support this. And then the jackpot: the possibility that both were true and she was blackmailing Fontaine. Threatening to expose the Beverly Hills pediatrician with their relationship unless he paid up. Rather than risk losing his career as a doctor who worked with children, Fontaine probably bought time with a small first payment before deciding to lash out. Either he paid someone to murder the woman or he killed her himself.
Avadar walked into the room holding four unlabeled DVDs. “I’ve got them,” he said. “I’ll burn you a single disc after we take a look.”
He copied the video files from each disc onto the computer’s hard drive. When he finished, Lena moved around the desk for a better look. The four files were on the monitor, each labeled by the date of the withdrawal. Avadar highlighted the group and hit play, running the clips back-to-back without interruption. Although the images were degraded, it was obvious that the same person had accessed the ATMs and stolen the cash at five hundred dollars a shot.
But Lena wasn’t really thinking about the money anymore.
She was playing back her telephone conversation with Lieutenant Barrera in her head. The one she’d had after leaving Fontaine’s office last night. The one that included a brief description of the messenger who walked into Parker Center with the package from the witness. The kid in the leather jacket wearing a Dodger cap, who didn’t ask the cops at the front desk to sign a log book and didn’t bother to leave a receipt.
She studied the monitor, watching their witness work the keyboard and rip off the cash. His head was lowered, his face partially concealed by the bill of his cap. He knew where the camera was, and he knew that he was committing a crime. Still, she could see enough of his mouth and chin to know that he was young. Eighteen or nineteen with long dark hair. She could see enough to know that it was him.
